


the wilderness in you, the wilderness in me

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Nudity, Oneshot, full shift coyote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1866276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sliding into a robe, she says, let’s go bub, and she goes before he can kiss her, early each weekend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wilderness in you, the wilderness in me

The sun descends in pinpoints through the droplets on his windscreen, curving miniature rainbows across his stray quiz and Malia’s wobbly handwriting.

They catch the wing tips of a dozen crumpled paper cranes he’s been showing her how to fold, and they’ve been folding and folding and folding so it’s only a logical progression that there are cranes everywhere now, spilling out of his locker, wedged under his pillow, scattered across his dashboard and catching glassy rainbow lights like they should - this should be a thing - cranes are things of  _flamboyance_. 

Spiders, though, are decidedly not, and there’s one leaping from a leaf-tip to his window. Stiles uses the edge of his textbook to flick it away - a crane infestation is as far as he’ll go - and the forest wetness blurs three introductory lines of the southern colonies,  _damn it._  

This is his life now: paper cranes and history tests and Malia tugging him into the woods early each weekend. 

He doesn’t mind when she wakes him, bare thighs tight as she sits on his belly and thumps his chest,  _up up up Stiles,_ and he blinks to  see her, maniacal grin and hair tangling at her shoulders. She moves before he can kiss her.

Sliding into a robe, she says,  _let’s go bub,_  and she goes before he can kiss her, early each weekend. 

It’s a game they play. She runs through the snarls of twigs and he tracks her, playing hide and seek in the wild until Stiles gets thoroughly lost or Malia baits him out of the jeep and they either end up groping and entangled in leaves, or they end up with Stiles’s laptop, and Malia will want to watch  _The Wolverine_  again. 

It’s not always a game, but sometimes it is, and Malia will whip out her claws in time, say,  _snikt!,_ under her breath so that Stiles  _has_  to smile. He kisses the razor tips, one by one, because she won’t cut him like Wolverine might.  _  
_

It’s not always a game, although it sometimes is.

It’s a slow game today. He saw her last loping around a low branch, tail switching this way and that before she disappeared in this general direction and he rolled slowly after. The paw-bent leaves end here, he’s waiting through the minutes with the flighty noises nature makes and a page of history, fiddling with the edge of his robe Malia’s appropriated. He reads a line, and then there’s a rustling. 

The dirt-trail ahead is clear, nothing flickering behind the trees, no paw-bent leaves, so he finger marks his book shut and looks down the side. 

It’s a badger, perched on its hind legs. It looks at Stiles, bead-polished eyes, and Stiles looks at it until its nose quits twitching, and it rears away and out of sight. 

Except, he squints, it’s left something behind, half pressed into the mud at a tree root, and it’s so  _weird,_ he’s seen some super freaky stuff, but it looks like paper?

He shoves away the robe and the book because this is curious and he’s got to investigate. He leaves the door open, shoving away a drooping vine to crouch, and he brushes mud away, digging gingerly with a forefinger, mud caking into his nails.

It  _is_ paper - a smudgy, lined paper with bit of calculus on it in his handwriting, folded into a thick, crumpled rose. He laughs, holding it up into sunlight like he’s uncovered gold  and now he wants to watch it glitter. 

He doesn’t get to, the low leaves shake, a blur jumps him, and then he’s on his back, pressed into the mud and  _god,_ that  _hurt._ He’s going to smell like the woods for a week. 

He’s going to smell like Malia, pressing nude into him, face set in a glittering grin. Stiles can’t breathe for a variety of reasons. 

He holds up origami, says, “A badger’s been wooing me.” 

She plucks it away and sets it beside his ear, says, “A badger’s been _stealing_.” And Stiles can’t breathe because she’s kissing him, but he’s got a question. 

"You think werebadgers exist?" He asks between kisses, just curious. 

"Maybe." 

"Because that’d be cool, right?" 

"Stop talking." 

"It’d be  _so_  cool. The wild things are all over me.” 

She bites him, like the wild thing she is, and she’s all over him, pressing warm and hard. Stiles breathes in fast: the forest and sweat and blueberry pie. She even tastes like blueberry pie.

She keeps nicking the last slice. 

He finds a leaf in her hair, flat and glossy, and he thinks of Daphne -wood-nymphs and laurel wreathes. He’s might tell her the story, if he remembers anything at all besides the weight of her after she’s done tugging at buttons, the flat of her tongue hot on his neck. 

If, on a Monday, his backpack’s flooded with a dozen folded paper roses, it’s none of Scott’s smirky business. 

**Author's Note:**

> spreading the stalia love ;)


End file.
